oh so pretty
by GlimmerIcewood
Summary: You appear beautiful, or at least as beautiful as possible. Much more stunning than those that surround you, even if your mind and heart are filth. So what happens when the beauty fades to black? —for District 14's monthly prompt, 'numbness'.


I do not own _The Hunger Games_ or any other references within this story.

Written for the District 14 monthly prompt, 'Numbness'.

xx

"I swear, Skeeter. You're so pretty. _Nothing_ could tear that down, not even District 6 itself."

Such bullshit. Those words didn't even make sense to the 18 year old girl and her fragile mind. Skeeter Brindle may still be pretty on the outside, but any person brave enough to venture into the dark depths of her mind would soon see otherwise.

Ever since she won the games, things had been different, oh so very different. Every waking moment was consumed with the thought of the sheer fact that she had killed people, even those younger than yourself. And through it all, they always said she had been one of the prettiest District 6 children anyone had seen in a long time, since the dawn of Panem itself. Not that it mattered to her at the time, but Skeeter, or at least what she used to be, hadn't cared about what she looked like.

Now it was different. The Capitol and the games had changed her entire perspective on life, and when the nightmares threatened to drown out every thought she ever had, remaining the perfect girl she had been in the great city was almost impossible. But every day she forced herself out of her crumpled bedsheets and brushed through her light blonde hair and thoroughly washed her face with lovely lavender scented soap, but even that was a weak effort. But it was easily maintained, and if the Capitol wanted more from her, they could come with help themselves.

She often painted, as many did in District 6, but only to distract herself from the memories she didn't want in her head. A rainbow of colours, spread across a fresh white canvas, a new brush that spread whatever colour she wanted with ease. To Skeeter, painting was the only way to forget everything. And every week, when a new shipment of glass paint containers, filled with rich reds and ocean blues and greens the colour of the grass after Winter, arrived from the Capitol, a small smile would flit its way across her porcelain face for just a moment before it disappeared.

But there came a day, a day that the lovely Skeeter Brindle remembered until the day she died, when everything changed. It was the day that led to the beginning of her destruction.

It was when Jovan, a previous District 6 victor, one of the only, knocked on her door. When Skeeter hadn't moved from her fetal position on the bed, nightmares coursing through her head, Jovan burst through the door, sending the hinges squeaking in alarm. When he saw the pale 18 year old with her knuckles curled white into her bed mattress, he sighed with a weariness that only an old victor could know.

"Dear, why didn't you come to me sooner?"

His voice makes Skeeter snap her head up in alarm, eyes widening at the sight of him. You see, Jovan has never been a pretty sight. Ever since he won, almost 30 years previous, his skin has gradually turned wrinkly, flesh resembling a piece of hard, cracked leather. His eyes, a brown the colour of mud, were sunken into his face, and everytime he grinned you could see his yellow teeth, an occasional black gap where one had fallen out.

"I can help you, sweetheart."

He sat down on the edge of her bed and she flinched away from him. The older man had always scared her, even though she had killed just like him and was definitely capable of taking down a man such as him. Jovan couldn't have any strength left in his body when his flesh hung off his bones and his knees and elbows stuck out like knobby roots on a century old tree.

"Unless you can make the nightmares stop, I suggest you get the _hell out of my house_."

Skeeter, and her voice, matched each another in weariness. The snarl which she had planned had come out more as a pathetic whimper, one that begged for help from someone she didn't even trust, though Jovan was the only one who ever came to rarely see her ever since her family died.

In one swift motion, Jovan reached his knobby hand deep into his pocket, pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. He rummaged around in the worn bag he carried on his shoulder, his fingers eventually coming up with a small syringe, the tiny, thin needle gleaming silver in the faint light coming in from the window. He placed it on the small bedside table and patted Skeeter's hand softly, letting a tooth-missing smile escape for a brief moment. A small creak coming from the bed, the older man rose to his feet and disappeared through the door, closing it softly behind him.

Skeeter wanted to throw away the vial and syringe immediately. She knew that it was morphling, and viewed the people who used it in her textbooks at school, at least when she had been there. It turned your skin a moldy yellow, and flaps of skin hung off your face like a towel on the back of a bathroom door. Your eyes sunk into your face and always looked unfocused, while your fingers twitched and you went insane without it. It would ruin her image, and that was the only thing that Skeeter Brindle had left to live for.

She felt numb inside. The house remained shut up, and the door always locked, not like she dared to go outside anyway. Skeeter did not socialize with anyone, see anyone, do anything that made her life valuable. The painting let her forget, but only for a little while. After that, she would curl up on the couch or in her bed, and the icy numbness would claw it's way back into her body, encasing her heart with what seemed like a violent depression that she could never get out of.

The vial of morphling sat on her desk, perfect and deadly. The syringe had been pushed to the back of the bedside table drawer, but the glass container was still sitting there, mocking her every move. She hadn't moved out of bed for days, except to get a drink of water or to go to the bathroom. Yet, in three days, she had done nothing to maintain her appearance, not even looked in the mirror once.

Eventually, she gave in. The drug tempted her, and she remembered how Jovan had said that one simple vial could help her. Just injecting it into her veins would make everything okay. And that okay, the one word she hadn't felt for months, was so enticing that she ripped open the drawer and when the morphling finally filled the syringe, after Skeeter and her shaking hands had spilt some onto the wooden floor, she stabbed the needle deep into her arm. The contents slowly emptied into her flesh and slid into her bloodstream as she desperately pressed the plunger down, only hoping for a break from life.

xx

Skeeter Brindle had never felt so relaxed. There was nothing to worry about, not a care in the world. Everything spun in circles when she walked and a hysterical giggle broke through her lips when she bumped into something. She felt stupid, but she hadn't giggled like a schoolgirl in so long that soon she was knocking furiously on the door of the house that belonged to Jovan, begging for more of the morphling that had made her feel free.

It made her feel _happy_. It was a glorious feeling, as beautiful as Skeeter had once looked. But unknown to the girl with the blurred eyes and slurred words, she was slowly becoming a monster, an ugly beast that relied on a drug to get through life, through the things she was supposed to be strong enough to fight through by herself.

Paint spread across a canvas, a blooming flower, a wide-spread ocean, this piece of artwork was turning out wonderful. The paintbrush glided with ease, and it almost seemed as if the image in Skeeters hazy mind were transferred right to the surface in which she painted upon. When she leaned back to examine her work, only one thing caught her eye.

Her appearance was reflected in a small mirror which hung off the wall opposite of where she was standing. And it was so hideous that she wanted to scream bloody murder, let her horrified shrieks ring off of the walls like no one could hear.

Blonde hair, limp and tangled, framed her once porcelain coloured skin. Her flesh itself drooped from the bone upon which it had once stretched across, and her eyes were crazed, the normal, pretty blue, now looking cloudy and dazed. This couldn't be her face, it just couldn't.

_Jovan said that it would help..._

Skeeter dropped to her knees on the floor, knocking against the easel. A glass container of liquid, frosty-blue paint fell from where it had sat onto the floor next to her, splattering against the side of her face and hair. She screeched, a feral sound tearing from deep within her throat, one that sounded like it belonged to a wild animal rather than the beautiful Skeeter Brindle. But she wasn't beautiful. She was a monster, a hideous creature that looked like it belonged in the streets.

_I feel pretty,_

Her mothers voice rings in her ears, the song taunting her.

_oh so pretty._

No. No. This wasn't happening. They said she was beautiful. But she had also once said that this would never happen. Not to someone like her.

_I feel pretty, and witty, and bright!_

Her reflection stared back at her, cruel and haunting. She dug her dirty nails into her arms, drawing slight pin pricks of blood. Her shaking fingers curled into the knot of hair that sat on her head, ripping out the thin follicles that remained there now. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to erase the images. But they wouldn't leave. The image of herself as a monster stayed burned into the backs of her eyelids. She clawed viciously at her eyes, her once stunning sky blue eyes, letting blood flow from the sockets. Even if blood dripped down her face, even if it made her feel hollow and numb, she wouldn't be able to see herself when her eyes were covered and blindfolded.

_And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight~!_

She pitied people who would have to see her. They would be lucky to stay away. People made their own choices to ruin their appearance, ruin their lives. They knew they would feel this numb, and they didn't want it to consume themselves.

And unlike Skeeter Brindle, their choices were still perfectly beautiful.


End file.
